Anthems for a Generation
by Paintbucket
Summary: If a stranger went walking down the streets of Cokeworth, it would be plain that it was a town where dreams came to die.
1. Nothing So Queer as Cokeworth

**A/N:** After reading Marauder fic over the last few weeks I decided to try my hand at my favourite pairing, James/Lily. But be warned, characterisation is my favourite part of writing so this fiction will definitely not be skint on that. The fic will not be exclusive to James and Lily. First Harry Potter fiction. Please please review!

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Harry Potter, I'd be living in Holland Park.

Chapter One: Nothing So Queer as Cokeworth

If a stranger went walking down the streets of Cokeworth, it would be plain that it was a town where dreams came to die.

There seemed to be a permanent chill in the air, and a cool mist that could be part-fog or part-smog, no one could be certain. It was not exactly an industrial wasteland, but there was an old factory and an old mill that had long ago ceased producing anything. A fitting description of the town itself really, and of its residents.

That being said, Cokeworth did have a nicer area, with better-kept houses and lawns that were overgrown but not horribly so. There was also a small park nearby with swings the more fortunate children of the town liked to play on. A few shops dotted the streets here and there – a small grocery, a pub, a café, a bookstore.

This was the nicer area, but even the nicer area was dismal, most of the time.

* * *

Mum was crying again, Lily noted with a despondent sigh. She could hear her whimpering softly into a pillow, even though she was trying her best to be quiet. Her youngest daughter, with ears as sharp as a fox's, could hear her anyway through the thin wall separating their bedrooms.

Privately, Lily thanked God that Petunia was at a friend's house that evening as she glanced at the empty tiny bed on the other side of the room. She would always be so upset and often end up weepy herself if she heard their mother crying. Of course, Lily often felt like crying too when it happened, but she was better at keeping herself in check, despite being three years younger than Petunia.

With reflection that beguiled her seven years, the small girl wondered when her mum would stop being so sad. She could hear that her father had joined her mother in the bedroom now, and was talking to her in a quiet murmur that was barely audible from the other side of the wall.

It had been weeks since it happened and her mum still cried every night. Lily didn't know what to do, and what was worse, she was starting to doubt if her father knew what to do, either.

Just earlier today they'd been playing tea cups with Petunia and her mother's hands shook so badly she'd dropped the pot and the china had broken. Lily automatically had tried to help mop up the tea with a small handkerchief and immediately succeeded in burning her little finger. Lily had flinched and her mother had gasped. Lily had been led to the tap and her mum had run cool water over it.

Remembering, Lily leaned over to the rubbish bin next to her bed and gingerly extracted two shards of the broken china. This had been one of their favourite pots, with small flowers decorating the surface, stems wrapping around each other and hugging. The girl fit the pieces together the way they had been so that the two flowers entwined again, frowning at the crack that still separated them visibly even though she was holding them tightly against each other.

Lily could hear her mother crying a little louder now, and her dad's voice was louder too, more desperate, more urging. Shame seemed to burn Lily's cheeks and she looked away from the wall over to Petunia's side of the room again. She didn't know why she felt embarrassed that her father couldn't stop her mum crying.

"…Maybe move it out of the room?" came her father's voice, the first discernable words from him Lily could make out, and she winced, wondering if this was the right thing to say. She kept her eyes resolutely glued to Petunia's calendar – to the fluffy kittens in a basket above the bold green letters spelling out MARCH, ignoring her mother's escalating sobs.

She felt a sudden warmth in her fingers and she looked down at her hands and gasped. The crack between the two pieces had grown fainter. Lily hesitantly pulled one of her hands away from the left piece and grew flushed with nerves and excitement when she saw that it stayed put, attached to the other piece. The line was still there, and Lily could tell if she tugged at the piece it would probably come loose and break in two again, but…still.

It was getting stronger, whatever it was inside of her, and it was happening more frequently. Strange things had been happening for the last few years of her life, and she knew her family brushed these off, but they were wondering too, she knew.

The noises on the other side of the wall had ceased. Lily realised that in her discovery she'd neglected to hear her parents go downstairs and turn on the telly, probably to drown out the sounds of her mum trying to talk her dad into letting her go visit Wivenhoe Park again, where she'd grown up. Lily had often heard her mother talk about the green open spaces and abundant rabbits. It always sounded like a fairytale, about as far away from Cokeworth as it was possible to get.

She put the piece of china back into the bin and turned back towards the wall, biting her lip and putting her hand against it. She knew what was on the other side of it, a few inches of cold concrete separating her warm flesh from its old wood and peeling white paint. Lily Evans knew that there was a crib that had been hauled out of the storage room a few months ago, and was going to go back in shortly. Its resident had never come home.

* * *

The stranger would also see how grim the people living in Cokeworth looked, particularly if heading in the direction of Spinner's End, where dodgy was perhaps a more fitting description. Though nothing in the town was _luxurious_, for lack of a better word, Spinner's End was the symbol of rock bottom. The neighbourhood's houses littered the dreary streets in indistinguishable, dilapidated brick boxes, like broken teeth in an old tramp's mouth. The filthy river's grey water bore the burden of empty crisp bags and fish-and-chip wrappers, adding to the ugliness of the area instead of detracting from it.

And it was a web. Sticky and suffocating, Spinner's End never quite let any of its inhabitants go. It was intent on keeping them twisted and knotted into place, sucking their blood until they grew old, withered, and died. It was the right order of things.

And it just so happened that in a particularly shabby little house on Spinner's End, overgrown weeds clambering around the fence, moss creeping over the sides of the residence, there were even darker happenings afoot.

* * *

What was supposed to have been a (somewhat) lovely birthday dinner had gone horribly awry.

The cold lobster linguini, a special dish his mother had slaved over, was now splattered across the tile, nauseating, worm-like in a sea of broken porcelain.

Severus cringed as his father, eyes flashing and red-rimmed, towered over his mother who sat at the table still, head bowed in a demonstration of shame and acceptance. All the fight and defiance had gone out of her the instant his father's voice had escalated to yells.

"What business is it of yours where I decide to go?"

He could feel his pulse thudding in his throat. His father's voice had transformed into strangely snake-like hissing, and that was when he was at his most dangerous.

His mother's eyes were now slightly raised, eyes transfixed on her son's frightened face. She stood.

…And Severus's heart plunged to his mismatched-socked feet.

His mum never did this, he thought wildly, and he was scared for her.

His father looked momentarily stunned at his wife's insolence, but recovered quickly. In one large stride he was in her face, causing her to stumble back. A savage pleasure filled him.

"If you don't think it's my business," she started, somewhat loudly, "then I should just go. Severus and I. We'll just –" her voice faltered, dying in her throat as she saw the rage in her husband's eyes.

Severus cried out as he saw his father grab his mother's wrists tightly. He made to stand up but over his father's shoulder caught his mum's frantic face, and the slight shake of her head.

He was shouting again, though his voice had taken on an even more menacing quality. The small boy hadn't thought it possible. He trembled in his seat, biting his lip, trying to force the impending tears back. He wanted to leave, but he didn't want his mum to be alone when his dad was this angry. He knew he couldn't move anyway; he was too scared.

_Coward_, Severus told himself. _Coward._

"Stupid bitch, I have a right mind to –"

His eyes screwed up with the effort to keep from crying. A strange sort of animal whimper escaped him when he realised it was too late.

"Sev," his mum gasped, reaching out to him even though she was feet away. His father slapped her arm down, yelling, advancing and making her step backward, lengthening the distance between the mother trying to comfort her son.

Severus slipped out of his chair and dashed into the corner of the kitchen, curling into it and sobbing silently, rubbing at his eyes and running nose with his threadbare sleeve. He looked everywhere, anywhere, trying to –

There. On the counter.

Mum said never to touch it. He could hurt someone or something. But she'd never said he couldn't use it when someone else was being hurt. It could surely protect as well.

He knew he would never forget the sheer terror in his mother's eyes when he raised the wand at his father's back. His father, noticing her looking at something behind him, slowly turned. His mouth turned upward in the most horrifying expression of deadly mirth Severus had ever seen on someone.

"Reckon you'll make that work, son?" He croaked, hoarse from yelling, now chuckling noisily. "Reckon you'll blast a hole into your dear old dad?"

He knew he would never forget the red sparks that flew from the end of the wand, or his mother screams, nor his father's eyes opened wide in surprise.

Oh, but how he wished he could.


	2. Songs of Freedom and Captivity

**A/N:**So I'm a big fan of Doctor Who and I was listening to the series 4 soundtrack extensively while writing this. Hence the title! Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and pretty please review! It means so much to me to know what you all think. Thank you for reading!

Chapter 2: Songs of Freedom and Captivity

Hundreds, thousands, millions of people poured into and mixed in London every year. Tourists, family, friends, dreamers, workers, lovers, criminals, and Londoners themselves, easily the most jaded of the lot. The city could be flashy, could be fun, endless clubs and bars and pubs and people throwing up the night's excesses in alleyways, held up by their friends.

There were the hotspots – Westminster, Camden, St. Paul's, Portobello Road. People living, laughing, visiting, complaining, crying, dying. A great big mass of humanity compacted into that vibrant city of southeastern England.

Yet London held its secrets too, and not just the type of mysteries such as whether or not little faces could be seen in the Tower of London during the quiet hours.

There was a rather large, fascinating, very old secret on Charing Cross, between a record shop and bookshop.

* * *

There was a time when James Potter did not get what he wanted, and he promised himself never again.

He wanted a racing broom.

Oh, not just any racing broom, of course. He may have been young, but he was a wizard of impeccable taste, particularly with racing brooms. Against his mum's protests, he'd been using his father's Cleansweep regularly since he was three years old. Even at that tender age he refused to even touch her old Comet 140 after the first and only time he'd ridden it. The Comet didn't even jump up into her hand when she asked it to every now and then. That broom was mostly used for actual sweeping now.

And no, he didn't actually _need _it. The Potters were hardly hard up on Galleons, and James had had his own broom for a few months now.

The fact was that the Nimbus 1000 was the best broom in the world, a spanking new model and James was certain he'd never seen anything quite so magnificent.

His face and hands pressed against the glass, James closed his eyes and imagined how wonderful it would be if the pane were to give way and he found himself with the Nimbus in his hands. The boy only entertained the notion for a split second, because the next instant he'd jumped back, remembering that his mother had told him not to do that or he might cause accidental magic. As mischievous as James could be, he'd decided it wasn't worth the trouble he may get into, even if he was fairly confident he could weasel out of any punishment his parents tried to pin on him. Nevertheless, he had given his dear mum a cheeky grin and had received a gentle chuck under his chin in return.

"…From the new Nimbus Racing Broom Company," he could hear the shopkeeper telling an interested pair of sisters through the shop's open door. "Established just this year. First model. They really know what they're doing, the speed on the Nimbus is amazing, can get up to one hundred miles per hour-"

"You know, I'm absolutely chuffed my son is such a connoisseur of brooms," a voice sneaked its way into James' ear, "but I'd really rather he told his poor old dad where he was going first before disappearing."

James turned slowly, meeting his father's warm but slightly stern gaze and grinned sheepishly. "Sorry Dad," he said. "It's just…the Nimbus. Look at it. Isn't it the most brilliant thing you've ever seen?"

His father's gaze softened as he looked in through the window at the broom. "Now James," he said, amused. "You know I just bought you a new broom last month for your birthday. I'm still in trouble for that with your mother, by the way." He turned away from the window; nodding at his cousin Charlus as he walked past, arm in arm with his fiancée Dorea Black.

James offered the couple a quick smile before immediately turning back to the window. "I know," he said, trying hard not to pout. "It's great and all, really. I really, really like it. But it's…" he trailed off, not knowing how to finish his sentence.

"…Not the Nimbus," his dad helpfully supplied, leaning in to pat his son's hair down. Most fathers ruffled their sons' hair when they were feeling affectionate, but Edmund Potter did just the opposite. James ' hair really didn't need any more ruffling anyway.

He cracked a grin at the ancient sigh the boy expelled. "Tell you what," he chuckled. "How do you feel about going to Florean's? I'm fairly sure you'll get a free ice cream."

"Free sundae!" James exclaimed, giving a mental private thanks to whoever or whatever had made Florean befriend his dad at Hogwarts.

They ambled along Diagon Alley, only stopping briefly for James to gawk again, this time at the owls in the window at the Owl Emporium. There they bumped into Della Potter, James' mother who had finished her robe shopping at Madame Malkin's. She made sure to tell her son (for the third time this summer) that he'd get an owl when he started Hogwarts, sharing a look with her husband. James knew they both wondered if they let him get away with too much or spoiled him, but he was glad that every "private" discussion on this matter resulted in them both agreeing he was a "good son" all the same.

When they got to the ice cream shop James settled down happily with a delicious sundae while his dad and his mum chattered away with Florean. He tried to keep up with the conversation, but when they started talking about different Ministry departments, the boy felt his attention span drifting and focused on his sundae, turning to his own thoughts.

He really, really wanted that Nimbus. He couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted something so much, even if his broom at home was perfectly nice. He could just see himself on one, scoring goal after goal for Gryffindor, wind in his hair and being cheered on by the entire school below him.

James slurped his spoon to get any last remnants of fudge from the silver and thought about the exhilaration he got in his belly every time he flew. The sun was shining, he had a free sundae, he was in Diagon Alley and everything was (near) perfect.

He just needed the Nimbus now to complete it.

* * *

A lot of people came to London to have their dreams realised. A lot of people came to work. A lot of people came to play. And a lot of people came because they had no other place to go.

London seemed appropriate for people who craved excitement, the bustling crowds and eager shoppers. It was possible to live in London for an entire lifetime and still never quite see everything the city had to offer. A person could build a life there, build a future, fill their life with people, money, things to do and places to see. Many could perhaps find the warmth they sought.

But London also had cold, dark places that didn't require peeling paint, crumbling stone, death (of the physical sort at least), nor drugs in a dirt-encrusted alleyway.

The cold could be found in extravagant, grand houses where light never quite made it in past the door or through the cracks in the window frames.

The cold could be found even when the house was full to the brim of people drinking Superior Red wine, courtesy of the Malfoy Apothecary and provided for the occasion.

In short, the cold could be found in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

* * *

On the topmost landing, in the first, slightly larger bedroom, Sirius Black was trying to sleep.

At only seven years old, shortly after dinner he and his brother Regulus, only one year his junior, had been sent away, along with some of the younger cousins who were kipping in the guest bedrooms.

Sirius put a hand to his head, which was settling down more comfortably now. Only a half hour ago it had still been swimming from the effects of the watered wine he'd sipped out of Lucius Malfoy's glass when he hadn't been looking. Curious until the end, Sirius decided not to try it again any time in the near future. The taste wasn't very nice and it made him feel strange. He'd take pumpkin juice anyday.

Or that nice fizzy drink he'd managed to get his hands on in the little cornershop down the road. He'd managed to slip away when Topsy wasn't looking, guilty though he felt at leaving the wizened little house-elf, who was minding a cut Regulus had managed to get on his knee. He'd gone to the shop and spotted a drink on the shelf. The shopkeeper, a Muggle, was distracted with a customer and Sirius managed to nick it out.

He'd cracked open the bottle cap with the edge of the brick wall of 11 Grimmauld Place, taking care to stay hidden behind a bush and tasted the beverage, which felt sweet and sugary and bubbly and all around lovely. Of course, his father had found him a minute later, muttered something about "Muggle filth" after looking at the label and turned it down, spilling all of the drink into the dirt.

This "negligence", coupled with the next day's broken teacups Topsy dropped, tray and all, at his mother's feet, resulted in her head joining the others 'on the wall. Sirius remembered the shock he'd gotten the morning after, and the guilt that had pooled in the pit of his stomach. Topsy hadn't been all that bad. More disturbing than the head, however, was her son Kreacher's enthusiastic reaction at the honour his mother had received.

A burst of laughter came from downstairs and Sirius sighed, burying his face into his pillow, which felt cool against his flushed face. He didn't feel very sleepy, but he didn't particularly mind having to be in bed.

"You're still awake, Sirius." It wasn't a question.

Sirius pulled himself up to a sitting position and looked at his mother. "No, Mum. Can't sleep."

Walburga Black was standing in the doorway, wine glass in hand. Her sequined dark blue dress managed to sparkle, even in the dim light from the landing. She had something tucked under her arm. Sirius sighed, knowing by now what that was.

"I didn't think you would be," she said, trying to maintain her ever-present cool and expressionless face, but falling short of her goal due to the wine.

Sirius watched her as she walked in closer and sat in an armchair against the wall, slightly unnerved. Instead of getting silly when drinking wine, his mother got more dangerous, more truthful. And she treated Sirius more like an adult as opposed to like a child, which was perhaps the most frightening bit.

"You've got a new cousin," she said, mirthless, her sarcasm palpable. "Or some sort of relative, anyway." She sipped her glass.

"I do?" Sirius asked, careful.

"The word is that Cedrella had another brat," she answered, almost sneering. "Didn't realise because she's been off the tapestry for years now. Her and that dirty husband of hers."

"A…a Mudblood?" Sirius questioned quietly, the word feeling heavy and wrong on his tongue like it usually did.

"No." Walburga snorted. "Married Septimus Weasley, that blood traitor disgrace of a man. That whole family is wretched." She shuddered and polished off the remaining wine in her glass, standing to her feet quickly and stumbling ever so slightly.

"I've got to get back," she said abruptly. "Only came up to check on you and your brother. He's asleep already."

The boy nodded. Regulus had always done as he was told, even simple things like when to go to sleep. He let himself fall back flat against the bed. He always wondered what his mother would say if he asked for a story, or for her to read to him, or sing (that in particular was laughable), or really do something else, anything else, to get him to go to sleep. But he wasn't brave enough to ask.

"Good night, Sirius. I expect you in the dining room tomorrow at half eight sharp for breakfast. The Malfoys are staying over."

"Good night, Mum." As it always did on these occasions, Sirius felt his heart beat faster in his chest. The feeling of not being able to control himself or his own actions always scared him something awful. But he'd never say anything, not ever. He closed his eyes shut and heard the latch of the box lift in the deep silence.

The first tinkling notes seemed much louder than they ought to be, familiar though they were. The tune, like it always did, sent a small shiver up Sirius' back and he pulled the blanket tighter around him. If it were up to him, he'd close the thing now, but he knew his mother was holding it and wouldn't let it go until he was asleep.

Sirius felt himself go drowsy, muscles slackened and breathing evening.

_Stupid music box_, he muttered inside his head, before finally giving in.


End file.
